


Party Politics

by Britpacker



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Election Defeat, Gen, POV First Person, Swearing, post series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Election defeat is never pretty.  The aftermath of losing power can be bloody.  Malcolm Tucker finds himself thinking the unthinkable to spare the Party a bloodbath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Party Politics

**Author's Note:**

> How did a numpty like Nicola Murray ever become Leader of the Opposition? What was Malcolm thinking of, allowing it to happen? This is my attempt to explain one of the show's more improbable plot twists.
> 
> As ever I've avoided the use of party names, but the tribal loyalties concerned are pretty obvious, really!

Jesus H fucking Corbett. Is this what fourteen years of power does? Sometimes I think we’d have been better off getting kicked out after a single fucking term.

Tom’s done the decent thing. I’ll give him that, he’s got a conscience; either that or his missus had the sense to tell him – out now, pal, before they can finish sharpening their fucking teeth on their House of Commons steaks. No leader can survive election defeat. 

Especially not a half-term Prime Minister who inherited his fucking _mandate_ when his more presentable, more electable predecessor got frozen bollock syndrome and jumped before he could be fucking pushed!

I thought we were fucked when Electoral Rabies Davis stepped into the top job unopposed. I didn’t realise then what we’d be choosing between to replace him.

Oh, nobody’s said it, yet. We’re a democratic fucking organisation. The membership will elect our leader, not a bunch of unemployed clowns from Billy fucking Smart’s sneaking around like cheating husbands looking for a guilty backroom shag. 

If I’m going to push that fucking line, it’d help if I believed it.

Yeah, right!

Nicholson clears his throat. Bollocks. Who put that pompous baldie poof in charge?

Himself, most likely. He must be fucking loving this.

They’re eyeing each other up like a bunch of hairy-arsed dockers after eight pints; just waiting for the first wrong word before the pint glasses and the bar stools start flying. As if it’s not fucking obvious why they’ve been _invited_ to join us! 

Mind you, they’ve got about as many brain cells as they do bollocks between them. 

Fleming. Smarmy little schizo. He’s got the sofa. Needs the extra seat for his fucking ego, even now.

Reeder. Smirking streak of weak piss hasn’t got a fucking clue. Colin the Creep from Fatty’s office. And Nutter Nick, representing the deceased leader. Suppose it’d be awkward for Tom to turn up at his own wake. 

The representatives of the leadership class. God help us all. We might as well concede the next election right now.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for coming over so promptly.” Jesus this is all I fucking need, a sermon from the Very fucking Reverend Bishop of Baldieville. “I’m sure we all appreciate that time is of the essence, so…”

Let him drone. I don’t need to listen. I know what’s coming.

The party won’t have Miller – not yet. His ambition forced us into a snap election and while we’re pushing the line that we didn’t lose it, if we’d won the fucking thing we wouldn’t be here, right? 

The Pie Club are plotting, same as they have at every resignation for the past thirty years. Waiting to exhume the tattered remains of Michael Foot’s fucking donkey jacket and return the dictatorship of the fucking proletariat – not that anybody actually claims to belong to that any more. Fatty couldn’t win anything but _Westminster’s Biggest_ fucking _Burger Eater_ competition but that doesn’t stop them floating him as the saviour of the Old Party every single fucking time.

There’s hardly a member of the shadow cabinet that doesn’t have a pair of grotty skeletons rattling ‘round their cupboards. Not more than two who wouldn’t sooner stab each other in the back than support each other for the poisoned chalice that’s the leadership.

Jesus Christ! It’s enough to make a grown man weep.

“You understand – Stephen –“ He does it on purpose, the shiny panto dame but what the fuck, seeing Fleming flinch is now officially the highlight of my fucking day. “That the grass roots won’t tolerate Dan, or yourself if you hadn’t lost your seat, or any of his faction, as leader.”

“Oh, I realise that, Julius.” And he knows why, the self-absorbed little tosser, he can’t stop himself glaring at me. Fucking disco lights and a fucking choo-choo train. Thought he could scare me with that! 

Twat. Thought he was so fucking clever, forcing me out. For all of about three weeks, yeah. Typical of him. Tripped up pushing me onto his sword, scratched me on the arse and fucking impaled himself instead.

Seeing his face when he lost his own fucking seat was the one bright spot of election night, and I’m not the only one who thought so.

Jesus Christ! He had to hide under a blanket like a fucking paedo outside the magistrate’s court just to get in here, and that was on his candidate’s own orders. Miller’s no fool; he daren’t piss the devious cunt off until his own Shadow Cabinet position’s secure but Fleming’s a fucking liability and everybody knows it.

Me? I walked in through the front door. Past the press pack. I’m still necessary.

That must be killing him. 

I hope.

There again we’re organising our own party’s fucking funeral here. Either we let it tear itself apart in the name of “an open and honest debate” about its future direction (up the creek to Shitsville, in case anybody’s wondering) or we bandage up the dismembered limbs and unite around a compromise candidate.

Fuck me sideways, what a _fucking_ mess!

Glummy Mummy. The John fucking Major of the ex-Cabinet. Possibly the only person in the whole party too fucking inadequate to piss off all the rest. And I have to sell her to the membership.

The backbenchers. The grass roots. The unions.

Then – Holy Mother of Christ, it gets worse! – I have to present the vacuous grinning mare to the public as a potential Prime Minister.

If the electorate was as shit-brained as their elected representatives think, that’d be easy. But they’re not. And it won’t be.

Still, I grit my teeth while Baron Bankrupt does his bit, nod at the right moment and stand on the Creep’s foot when he remembers he’s got balls and tries to interrupt. They never have been much use to him, mind. 

Pity I can’t crush Reeder’s at this very fucking moment. It’s starting to dawn on him what Julius is suggesting. His boss. The next Leader of Her Majesty’s Loyal (and totally fucking shambolic) Opposition.

He’s seeing himself inside Number Ten already. Prick. With her in charge we’re heading for the shite heap out the back, and there’s not a single fucking thing I can do about it.

I’m beginning to understand why Cullen – dementia-raddled quisling wanker – slithered over to the other bunch of tossers. What’s worse: I’m starting to envy him.

He’s out of this dunghill. I’m in it up to my fucking eyeballs. 

Julius doesn’t stop. Just drones on and on with his high-falutin’ crap. Likes the sound of his own voice as much as any elected fucking representative. He’ll take the credit – if that’s the word – for _preserving party unity_ when it’s all over and _she_ is installed by a democratic fucking vote. 

Which she will be. I’ll see to that.

Christ on a Boris Bike. The things I do for this fucking party!


End file.
